Sharing and Listening: The Art of Storytelling at the Moth

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Matthew Tanzosh at a Moth High School StorySlam on May 29.
Keith Bedford for The Wall Street Journal

By

Ralph Gardner Jr.

June 25, 2013 9:35 p.m. ET

If I tell the story of my fifth-grade Field Day triumph here, will I still be eligible to tell it at the Moth, the 16-year-old nonprofit dedicated to the art of storytelling? It's probably a moot question, because I'd never have the courage to stand up before a live audience and bare my soul, which I take is the point of telling stories at the Moth.

A journalist friend who is a frequent TV talking head told me it was one of his more terrifying experiences, ever. I suspect the reason is that writers don't really tell stories to reveal themselves, but as a way of hiding in public. The great joy of the craft, and in my opinion the only reason anyone should pursue it—rather than seeking a secure job with a salary, pension and benefits—is the sense of control. You're the master of a corner of the universe, albeit a minuscule one.

One challenge of the Moth is that some of the writer's most reliable tools are removed at the same moment he or she is put at the mercy of a crowd. Also, you're not allowed to read your prose. No notes or paper are permitted.

ENLARGE

Kadeedja Muheto reacts as her name is called to tell her story.
Keith Bedford for The Wall Street Journal

"Stakes are essential to live storytelling," the storytelling tips section of the Moth's website explains. (I believe this refers to the stakes revealed within one's story—not the simple fact of facing your fears by mounting the stage.) "What do you stand to gain or lose?"

I'm thinking of my story again, about winning the Browning School Field Day cup in fifth grade. I already know what you're thinking: What kind of boring, unaccomplished life have you led that you have to go all the way back to a track meet when you were 10 years old to find a story worth telling?

I couldn't agree more. But that's not the issue at the moment. The issue is whether I am able to define the stakes. "Why is what happens in the story important to you?" their tips sheet goes on. "If you can't answer this, then think of a different story."

I attended the Moth Ball in May at the Hudson Theater. Garrison Keillor served as host. Richard Price, Adam Gopnik and Satori Shakoor told stories. So did the winners of the Moth's national "GrandSlam" storytelling competition; they got a minute each and were the best part of the evening.

I think I got an inkling of the Moth's importance as a cultural institution, and even perhaps as an ongoing work of art. It's about getting to the truth, and you can't ask any more of art than that. But it also runs the risk of becoming too slick. There seems to be a premium placed on performance, on projection. And some of the best storytellers are the worst performers.

The organization was started in 1997 by George Dawes Green, a poet and novelist who, the story goes, wanted to re-create the feeling of sitting on summer porches on sultry nights in his native South unspooling stories for friends. (The moths after which the organization is named were attracted by the porch light.)

But the beauty of such evenings, and of storytelling itself, is that the author is also part of the audience; he or she may be as enchanted by the mind's pirouettes as the listeners. It's about spontaneity, the setting (and perhaps the refreshments) as responsible for the urge toward revelation as any internal compulsion. There's a lovely intimate, transgressive element about it all, enabled by a feeling of safety. Indeed, it may be the definition of friendship.

That seems a distinctly different enterprise than standing on a stage and telling a carefully crafted and rehearsed story, even if the Moth's storytelling tips warn you against memorization.

Perhaps closer to the Moth's original idea is the Moth High School StorySlam, an educational program that brings the Moth and competitive storytelling to New York City high schools.

I attended one of their events at the Beacon School on the West Side in late May. Eight teenagers, after meeting five times with Moth instructors and faculty advisers, told their stories. The event was hosted by David Crabb, a two-time Moth StorySlam champion.

"We teach them the principles of storytelling," explained Catherine McCarthy, the Moth's High School StorySlam manager. "Beginning, middle and end. It's not just a crazy thing that happened. It's something that changed you."

The winner was Alexis Traussi, who told a story about cutting herself and denying it until she was confronted by a teacher. She told me that this was her fourth story slam, but her most challenging. Indeed, she hesitated when it came to the moment of truth. "I couldn't spit it out," she said afterward. "Right at the point I was going to say, 'Self-harm in the form of cutting,' it forced me to be vulnerable."

Perhaps even more important, she picked up a valuable skill: listening to the stories of others. "It made me more aware of everybody else, and to pay attention," she said. "You can't know someone until you listen to them."

That's a long way from the public speaking contests of my youth, and probably more productive. Rather than go with one of the classics guaranteed to wow our ancient instructors and judges—such as "Old Ironsides" or "Anabel Lee"—I decided to recite a humorous ode to breakfast cereal.

The following year, I picked "Archy and Mehitabel." For those unfamiliar with the work, created by Don Marquis, a 1920s newspaper columnist, it starred Archy, a cockroach who composed satiric verse absent capitalization on an office typewriter because, as a tiny insect, he couldn't operate the shift key. Mehitabel, an alley cat, was Archy's best friend.

Needless to say, I never won the public-speaking prize or even made it to the semifinals. Which could describe the entirety of my educational experience, with the exception of the time I won the Field Day cup.

I put it all together, not only conquering the 50-yard dash, which was my strength, but also winning or at least placing in the high jump, the long jump and probably some distance race.

When I returned home that afternoon, the news of my triumph somehow preceding me, it felt like my birthday, Christmas and the Fourth of July rolled into one. My mother, who didn't put much stake in academics—perhaps because school had always come so easy to her—but revered athletic prowess, brought out a cake, perhaps even with candles.

Nothing was too good for me. I promptly requested that month's double issue of Mad magazine. The 50 cents required to procure it was provided without protest.

The Field Day cup resides on my bookshelf to this day, a memento to greatness, however fleeting.

But I'm still not sure what the stakes were, or whether I need to find a different story to tell at the Moth.

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